


Silent Nights (5+1)

by PeachGO3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New York City, World War I, biblical, medieval times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-07-19 18:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19978897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: Christmas Eve. While he waits for his angel to arrive, a demon recalls five joint Christmas Nights. And one lonely one.





	1. Manhattan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skullheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullheart/gifts).



> How ironic – I’m melting away in my room and think to myself “tüdülü time to post that Christmas fic”
> 
> I was hooked by the fluffy Christmas chapters in my 30 Days of Ineffable Husbands, so yeah. Check out “Days With Thee” if you want to read those. I hope you enjoy this one despite the 40°C :)))
> 
> The timeline is TV series compliant, in case you’re wondering, but the characterisation is a blend of book+TV, hence I will be using both tags :')

_Deck the hall with boughs of holly_  
_Tis the season to be jolly_  
_Don we now our gay apparel_  
_Troll the ancient Yuletide carol_  
_Fa la la la la la la…!_

His houseplants had grown especially well during the last days. No spots. Crowley was very content. He danced around his flat to the R’nB beats from his brand-new speakers, in his hand was a glass of wine from his emergency bottle, and hundreds of candles around him. In years prior to this they would’ve made up for the lack of a proper Christmas tree. This year, however, he did buy one. Well, not buy, but miracle. It was a gigantic fir. The ceilings of this old building were high, yet it rose up right to Crowley’s ceiling. Its needles were dark green, and Crowley had decorated it with white and gold and hundreds, if not thousands of little lights. It looked rather tasteful, he found. But who cared about his opinion? Would Aziraphale like it, too?

He let himself fall onto his couch and emptied his glass in one go, all the while swaying to Whitney’s vocals. Who said demons couldn’t celebrate Christmas?

His angel would be here soon – their first joint Christmas after a long time. Except for the ones they spent together when they were with the Dowlings. Not that long ago. Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis had been invited to the US ambassador’s parties, but Crowley did not want to count those in. American Christmas Eves were terrible. Very… American. But they had been fun in the 1990s, he remembered.

He had been to New York City one time. Snowy, starry, a perfect balance of both. He remembered seeing his reflection in the shop windows of Macy’s, in-between all the stressed-out humans, and shivered at the memory. He had a parted fringe at that time. And he even wore jeans. Strange times. But the season was nice. Christmas was just to magical to miss out on. The perfect time to thrive for angels and demons alike, seeing how they are of the same original stock. Children laughing. And crying when they did not get all twenty-six presents they wrote on their wish list. For Crowley, stress, consumerism and disappointments should’ve been what love and wonder were for Aziraphale, but the angelic roots showed every year. He liked wonder and lights and smiles. And Aziraphale had all of that during Christmas season in himself as well, so Crowley couldn’t really help loving the angel in this time of the year.

Crowley remembered wondering – Where could Aziraphale be? What would he do in New York City on Christmas Eve? Somewhere along the line, he had found him.

“Merry Christmas to you too, sir.”

Crowley knew that voice. The love waves it had sent to his ears almost made him fall over in surprise. He looked around and finally found his angel standing near the street where he dispensed Christmas cards to the passer-by. Crowley leaned against a wall to watch. “Those look pretty,” a woman dressed in all-red said, and Aziraphale wiggled in excitement: “Why, thank you!”

“You don’t find old-fashioned ones like these in stores nowadays. I’ll take ten, please.”

“Here you are, my dear.”

“How much for these?”

“Oh, no, no, please. They’re for free.”

“For free? No way. Here you go, sweetheart, go buy yourself a coffee. It’s so cold out here.”

Aziraphale’s smile beamed so brightly Crowley had to cover his mouth. Good Lord, he looked so happy. “Thank you so much,” the angel said, “and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” the woman called and continued her walk. Aziraphale briefly smiled to himself before greeting other passer-by with the little basket in his hands. His cheeks were red from excitement and coldness alike. What were those boots? They must’ve been at least two hundred years old. Crowley sighed. He stepped closer, hands in his jeans’ pockets.

“Good Evening, sir, and merry-” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Crowley!”

“Angel,” Crowley greeted back, sniffing. He tried to look as cool as possible as he placed himself beside Aziraphale – but hearing his name called like that made it next to impossible to look cool now.

“What are the odds,” Aziraphale beamed. “What brought you here?”

“Oh, I’ve wanted to go see that new Disney musical on Broadway,” Crowley lied.

“Oh, really? How was it?”

Crowley shifted. “I, err, actually haven’t gotten round to see it yet,” he said.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, still smiling. Should he ask him? Ask him now? “It’s not that important anyway,” Crowley said a bit too loud. “I’ll go there another time.” Damn it.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said. He fumbled with the basket in his hands. “Fancy a walk?” Crowley asked instead, and the angel smiled and made the basket disappear with a dismissive gesture in an instant.

“She surely thought you were a homeless person.”

“Really? And why do you think that?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You’re certainly dressed like one. Can’t blame her.”

Aziraphale pretended he didn’t hear that. “What are the odds,” he said yet again, strangely absent. They strolled the urban canyons leading to Times Square. Small puffs of air crystalised in front of his happy face, and he wore so many layers of clothes and scarves that Crowley began to sweat just from looking at him.

Aziraphale thought that their meeting was purely accidental, but Crowley had planned everything. Once the Cold War was over, Aziraphale had said years ago, he wanted to visit New York City in the winter. But he was both busy and lagging, so he did not go in 1989. He procrastinated for another five years. But Crowley always knew where he was. All he had to do was to follow the angelic radiation. And here they were.

“And how do you like Big Apple?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful!” Aziraphale beamed as he watched children run past them. “So many lights and colours. And great buildings. I was told to visit Rockefeller Center, too. Can we go there next?”

“Sure.”

“We could go ice skating together,” Aziraphale thought out loud.

“I won’t go ice skating,” Crowley uttered.

“Why not? Everyone’s doing it. Oh, what is that smell, Crowley?” he asked all of a sudden. Crowley was taken by surprise and just stared at his angel’s sweet face as he looked around. Turns out he had smelled the sugar of roasted almonds.

“A screw of those, please,” he said. Crowley paid the vendor and they continued their way.

Times Square was illuminated with its usual big signs and lights, and Aziraphale’s eyes shone brightly as ever in their reflections. Crowley flushed at the sight. The season’s love waves urged him to take Aziraphale’s hand. To feel the soft old cotton gloves. To take them off, maybe, to kiss each chubby finger and mumble silent prayers of adoration.

He miracled all of that away. He tried to.

“I wish it wasn’t so crowded and loud,” Aziraphale said over the noise of music and cars. He then flinched and looked upwards – snow!

“Oh, Crowley, look,” he said, almond bag rustling in his hands. And Crowley did look.

“I should’ve brought an umbrella after all. Pity if our nice jackets would get stains.”

“Hm.”

As Aziraphale reached out for a single snowflake above his head, it stopped moving. As did all humans and cars, no matter what they had been doing, and Aziraphale looked around in his own Christmas painting of New York City. Before the snow could freeze the ground, it had frozen time in a New York minute of their own. Crowley cleared his throat. “Rockefeller Plaza is vacant now, angel. Wanna go?”

Aziraphale gave him a knowing look but said yes in the end. “I’d love to.”

_It comes down to reality, and it's fine with me ‘cause I've let it slide_  
_I don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside_  
_I don't have any reasons_  
_I left them all behind…_

From the top of this skyscraper, New York City was quiet and almost small. How grotesque. Millions of lights and millions of humans were down there, frozen while doing their respective business. And here were an angel and a demon, drinking their strawberries and crème Bailey’s, watching stale snowflakes and frozen stars. “Almost six thousand years on Earth,” whispered Aziraphale, “and never have I seen something this breath-taking.”

Crowley wanted to disagree, but Aziraphale’s adoration for this view was too strong for him to protest against. His angel was beaming, overflowing with love and warmth that calmed both of them. Crowley smiled and turned his head to take a look at the nightly city as well. At the boats on the river. The bridges. The lights. He drank some more, feeling the alcohol smooth his system, and he swayed as Aziraphale hummed a slow tune. Just as Crowley was about to close his eyes – that’s how relaxed and at peace he was – he recognised the song and sighed. “What are you doing, angel?” he groaned.

“Oh, it’s that nifty Christmas carol everyone’s listening to these days. I really like it.” Aziraphale smiled, but Crowley was suddenly very tired. Stupid angel. “It’s not a Christmas carol, it’s Mariah Carey,” he explained.

Aziraphale was unimpressed. “Well, whatever it is – I think I need to thank Mrs Carey for it. I just wish more people would listen to her music.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Crowley said, “I’ve already taken care of that. It will get on everybody’s nerves in a few years from now.”

“Oh! Well, that’s one nice Christmas present for me,” Aziraphale said with a sweet smile, but he refused to look at Crowley.

“It’s not a present,” Crowley said, “I did that months ago. When she wrote it.”

“I still consider it a present,” Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley could see him getting ready for it, ready to say it, but he stopped him with a mildly threatening glare. They’ve never wished each other a merry Christmas, and they wouldn’t start now, even though they were above the roof of the known world. Instead, Crowley asked what Aziraphale was up to next. “I mean, if you don’t have other plans, you could stay for a little longer. We could go see the new musical. Or visit Disneyland while we’re over here in the states,” he suggested, temptation softening his voice.

But Aziraphale declined. “Better not,” he said. Crowley waited, but then he nodded. Better not.

“Anyway, it was fun meeting you,” Aziraphale said somewhen.

“Likewise,” said Crowley. And he meant it. At least it was considerably more fun than the Christmas they had shared exactly one hundred years prior to this. His eyes fluttered as the angel left. Snow fell and time unfroze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for checking this one out ♡


	2. Western Front

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in that Christmas mood, huh?
> 
> The ambiguous rating is, at this point, purely for this chapter. Heads-up for bits of graphic injury descriptions.

The front line hadn’t moved ever since early November. When the British forces had been withdrawn from Aisne, where the Germans tried defending their position, and were sent to Flanders, the No Man’s Land had grown with such naturalness that by now no one thought this line would ever move again. Nothing moved. From time to time an individual soldier would scream and climb the wooden ladders to cross the war-torn battlefield of mud and dead bodies that was once the beautiful region of Ypres. Crowley remembered this region very well from the tenth or eleventh century, he wasn’t sure about the exact date anymore. Aziraphale would know.

A splat of dirt hit his face down in the trench. Every time a lone soldier cried and moved forward, they would be shot down by machinal guns. Humans had thought of those. Clever. Very deadly. Being shot by those was horrible, but still better than getting killed by literally anything else they had come up with lately. Poisonous gas – blocking your view, choking you, crawling everywhere and sparing no one. Explosions. Ripping you apart completely, physically erasing your existence, so that not even a body was left to bury. It was horrifying.

“Mr Crowley!”

Crowley leaned himself closer to the trench’s muddy walls. He clutched his alibi rifle with both hands, shaking.

“Mr Crowley,” the boy called again. Crowley closed his eyes and sighed, coming out of his stash. “Kid?” he called, and the boy recognised his face. “Mr Crowley, are you all right?” he asked. His face was dirty and hardened under his helmet.

“I’m fine,” Crowley uttered, ducking his head.

“Me too,” the boy nodded. Crowley frowned. Little Robin. Back in London, this chap had polished his shoes every Thursday. That’s how he earned his money. He sang, too, every Monday near Piccadilly Circus. When he was called to war, he told Crowley about it, and the demon could not let him go. He was just a kid! How do kids _still_ have to go to war? Never ever would Crowley be able to wrap his head around the concept – sending people this young into combat.

He wanted to protect Robin. He wanted someone to look out for. Now that Aziraphale did not meet with him anymore… He got rid of the rifle and caressed the boy’s hair and soothed him. War was surely having a blast with this one, it was just her taste. Prompting humans to agonise themselves like this. And here he was, in their midst, like a human soldier. What was he thinking?

Robin wept in his arms. He was cold.

Crowley remembered. That’s why he was here. Those were the little things he could give. He hummed to shush the boy.

Then, out of nowhere, someone called, “Grenade!” And there was a thud in the muddy ground, right next to them.

“Fuck.” Crowley was quick, but not as quick as he wanted to be. He tossed Robin aside, he wanted to make the grenade disappear – nasty little bugger – but he was too slow. It went off. Along with the dirt, Crowley fell backwards. His ears rang. There was a sharp pain on his side, down on his leg and growing up, up, his torso, his neck, his head. His dark glasses were gone.

“Oh, please, no,” he uttered, but he couldn’t hear himself because his mouth would barely open. He felt his skin burn away. No. No, no, no, not now! He liked his body, he didn’t want another one! Besides, they wouldn’t hand him one just like that. Oh, shit, all the paperwork will be-

“Mr Crowley! No, Mr Crowley!” That was the boy. His face was above him now, distorted in horror. He was shaking him. “Mr Crowley,” he called again, “your… your eyes…”

“I’m… fine,” Crowley managed to say. He dared to look down his body. The brand-new uniform was ripped apart – and there was a lot of blood and ruffled flesh. The demon felt himself getting weaker, head falling back into the dirt. “Mr Crowley, don’t die, please,” the boy whined. Other soldiers came closer, too. “A stretcher!” someone called.

“Somebody – do something! You will be all right,” cried the boy.

“I know,” said Crowley.

There was no stretcher, and night did not fall upon Ypres. It was just one endless day. Crowley laid dead-still. It felt peculiar. He had never died before. Robin was cradling him, rocking back and forth gently, and the grey clouds travelled above them in calmness.

What a weird century this was, Crowley thought. The nineteenth one had felt strangely long, almost as if it had started back in the Bastille. There were new times, new ideas. So many revolutions – human and mechanical alike. Big dreams. And the bitter-sweet jab to his heart that Aziraphale could not speak of him as a friend. ‘Fraternising’.

If the nineteenth century ever really ended, it ended now, in the Great War. Somewhere here in Belgium in a rotten trench where a boy cradled a demon and sang a song to him ere silencing himself with his tears.

Crowley shifted. He could’ve fastened the process. But his body just wouldn’t die. Should he stay alive for the boy? He wanted to stay. The night came and went. Snow fell and stopped, but no soldier ran anymore. Robin stayed by his side throughout.

Somewhen he sniffed in a silent voice, “You know, it’s Christmas Eve. Think of what might’ve been if everyone… just followed the Pope’s advice…”

“What advice did he give?” Crowley asked and coughed. He was numb all over.

Robin caressed the intact side of his face. “He said… that the guns may fall silent at least upon the night the angels sang,” he murmured.

Crowley hummed. Angels singing, ha. It didn’t sound half as nice as humans expected it to sound. “The angels won’t sing,” Crowley said and looked at his lifeless hand in the mud. “But you can,” he suggested instead, “so, come on. Sing me a lullaby.”

“I won’t!” Robin cried. “They’ve sent for the miracle doctor! You will be fine!”

“The miracle doctor?” Crowley chuckled. Humans were cute. He wouldn’t do it any longer. He closed his eyes. Robin did hum a lullaby melody as Crowley drifted off, not fighting against the weakness taking over any longer. Love warmed him. But it wasn’t Robin. It was…

“Doctor! Oh, finally! Doctor, he’s here, he’s still breathing.”

“Where? Take me to him.”

Crowley trembled, his limbs prickled. No way. “Angel,” he whispered, head spinning, and then he felt it, the familiar warmth and sparkling of Aziraphale’s radiation washing over him in all its glory. “Angel,” he said again and felt a smile creep onto his face. Next thing he knew, his angel was by his side.

“Oh, good Lord.”

“Nice to see you too,” Crowley murmured, eyes opening just far enough to take a glance at Aziraphale’s fair face, his white clothes and grey eyes. Then Crowley’s head fell back again.

“No…!”

“Don’t worry, dear boy, I have got it. Please leave. Go to the soup kitchen and warm yourself up, it’s getting quite cold. Do as I say. Now go.”

Crowley heard Robin’s steps fade away and chuckled. “You’re being too harsh with him, angel.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale scolded, but not letting him answer. Crowley heard he was grubbing for something in his leather alibi bag. “You look terrible, what has happened?” he snapped.

“Grenade.”

“Yes, I know, they told me. But why didn’t you make it disappear?”

“I’m sleep-deprived. Didn’t have much time to think.”

“You saved the boy,” said Aziraphale, not sounding as surprised as he should, but rather as if what he wanted to say was ‘how typical, silly demon’. “You’re here because of him, I presume?”

“You know me, angel,” Crowley chuckled, but it just hurt by now. He knew why Aziraphale was here, too. Surely sent by head office to perform miracles in this war-torn land. Miracle doctor, ha. The true miracle was the two of them being in the same trench right here at the Belgian front.

“Don’t move,” Aziraphale said. He leaned over him, warmth and love curing Crowley more than any medicine ever could. Crowley was not prepared for this. He moaned in relief. “Shush now,” Aziraphale ordered, concentrated. His forehead touched Crowley’s, and the demon pushed himself up, craving the healing touch. It made him better.

“Shh,” Aziraphale made and used his fingers to trail alongside the wound at Crowley’s side. To calm him. “It’ll take some time,” he said. The flesh returned to its place, the piercing pain weakened, blood and life returned almost too fast, making his heart beat faster and faster. Aziraphale’s human fingers did not touch him. His healing was not overly careful, but gentle enough for Crowley to melt against it and to feel its taste on his twisted tongue – strawberries and summer days. The sheer comfort almost made Crowley’s wings jump into matter. His soul glowed and glowed brighter with every drop of healing that Aziraphale sent into this shattered body, he wanted it to last, despite the disgusting noises that made him shiver so violently.

“Angel,” he whispered, complete hand grasping the coat, pulling himself up.

Aziraphale smiled against his face, foreheads still touching. There was no healing coming from there. “Don’t,” he said softly. And Crowley let go.

The loss of touch was devastating. He curled up in the mud as Aziraphale pulled away, breathing heavily. Cold. “I’m completely back in health,” Crowley uttered, arms folding in front of his chest for warmth. “They’ll notice. You could’ve been more discreet, angel.”

“I… got carried away,” Aziraphale said softly. He sat down beside him, breath steadying. So, his miracle job was done. Hopefully head offices would not find out he healed an actual demon… “It’s a calm Christmas Eve,” Aziraphale said, probably just to talk and not sit in silence.

“Is it really calm?” Crowley asked.

“There will be no more fires tonight. Or tomorrow. I can feel it. Can’t you, too?”

“No,” said Crowley, and added in his thoughts, the only thing I can feel right now is you. It was all over his body, that glow. And: My nerves are too blank right now for another grenade to possibly land here again. He shifted. “Thank you,” he said, staring at the mud.

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale said in a tone that sounded just a little bit too much like glee. He put his hands on his knees and opened and closed them in a playful gesture. Crowley frowned. “Aren’t you mad anymore?” he asked quietly.

“Mad?” the angel asked, feeling caught. “Not really. Are you?”

“No,” Crowley said. He wasn’t mad. He had been disappointed, brooding. Sad. But now he was thankful.

“I’m relieved then,” Aziraphale said, but ironically he sounded tenser now than before. Crowley shifted his head to look up at the angel, who just stared forward at the other wall of the trench. A faraway candle poorly lit his face, and the wind roared, gently stroking his hair.

“Thank you,” Crowley said again.

“Don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale quietly.

They did not talk for a while. Aziraphale just sat there, right next to Crowley, who still laid in the dirt on his newly healed side, arms folded, watching the clouds. Somewhen, just when Crowley thought he saw a star twinkling in the blue night sky, a voice called, “Merry Christmas!”, and some others followed.

Aziraphale turned his head around. “That was a German accent,” Crowley noted and heaved himself up. “The trenches are very close to each other,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully and took a look over the edge. Crowley did the same.

On the other side, beyond the frozen ground, there were gloved hands waving from the trench. Not only that – along the trench, hundreds and hundreds of candles were lit, shining through the cold air, dancing in delight. Aziraphale laughed in surprise. “Merry Christmas!” a British voice called back, and others followed. From up here Crowley saw Robin stepping closer to him, mouth opened in disbelief about the healed body. Crowley winked at him, grinning. “Merry Christmas,” he said to the boy. Aziraphale turned. “You’re shocking him,” he scolded with a smile.

“Not my fault I’m complete again,” said Crowley. Just then, there was singing from the German trench, coming all the way to the British one. Robin ran to a ladder to see what was happening.

“They’re singing Silent Night,” Aziraphale recognised, angelic radiation lighting up in an instant.

The night was dark and chilly. The German soldiers lasted especially long on the last note of the first verse. The Brits accepted this prompt and continued the song in English. Aziraphale smiled brightly at Crowley, who didn’t sing, but closely listened to Aziraphale making his merry way through the next verse. He also heard, somewhere above the candles and ice, the bright voice of Robin Williamson, who would, just a day later, have a hot drink with a German officer, exchange buttons with him and get defeated in a football match later on. It would be the only Christmas truce that this front had ever seen.

But Robin did not know that, and neither did Crowley and Aziraphale. They just swayed and sang and felt peace smiling down onto the muddy trenches and their candles. It was the last gasp of the century of dreams ere the twentieth would be upon them.

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s smile in his healed chest. And he saw it, too, and he bathed in it for the whole night.


End file.
